


the other side of the sun.

by elipsism



Series: serenity of time [1]
Category: Company - Sondheim/Furth
Genre: Character Study, F/F, Multichapter, bobbie is depreszt :(, company west end, prose, this took me too long to write, will tw chapters when appropriate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26326444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elipsism/pseuds/elipsism
Summary: &. a story of love, loss, humour and the aftermath of something so pure.
Relationships: Joanne/Robert (Company)
Series: serenity of time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1912990
Comments: 7
Kudos: 13





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> tw// this chapter has implications of suicidal ideation.

There isn’t anything particularly striking about viewing oneself in a mirror, because where eyes are darkened by crescent circles, hidden behind a tight-lipped and forceful smile, Bobbie doesn’t see the resemblance to the bubbly red-head she is made out to be.

Roberta Carlisle was many things in life. Intelligent, hardworking, annoyingly self-centred, but somewhere, in the midst of self-reflection, she was not lucky. Never lucky. In the descent of what was only ever described as a long and scraping sadness, amidst a well-paying office job and a livelihood emphasised by a plethora of friends, there was something acute about the misery that had plagued her existence.

She hadn’t slept in days.

And, on top of the unpaid bills, the voices and the exhaustion, there is an emptiness Bobbie cannot fill, no matter what she does.

-

On good days, when weeks are on and off at best - there are short stabs of comfort in the loneliness. When her friends didn’t bombard her phone with messages, or calls, or tried to pretend they actually cared when they didn’t.

Either way, each stream of sentences would work into another, and Bobbie couldn’t figure out Sarah from Susie anymore. It was always the same, stupid message. She couldn’t even get them to shut-up, no matter how many times she’d muted her phone and turned the notifications off.

On a feverish, weekend evening, (her days are now numbered, apparently) Bobbie stands hazy-eyed, grasping at the counter with hands weak. Her world is dizzy, and each movement is bound to send her crashing to the ground. The answer to her crippling migraine is in the cabinet above the sink, and after a moment of rummaging, she finds her prize.

Bobbie pops the nearly forgotten pills into her mouth and dry-swallows them down, opting for ignorance. It’s easier to forget, to drown herself in the simple things, but what had been her vice was now bringing a slow but wanted release.

The shadows that contorted over the walls and hung in her line of sight now seemed to move slowly before her. Bile rises in her throat, but she swallows the panic down with uneasy breaths and a slam of her hand against the counter to bring her back.

Bobbie couldn’t put an amount to the number of painkillers she’d taken within the past twenty-four hours, or how she’d downed nearly a quarter of them with alcohol.

It turns out, even ibuprofen and alcohol wasn’t a good formula to-

No.

Something always brought her back. Some ambivalent force, like a mother’s voice nagging. Bobbie prays it isn’t who she thinks it is.

-

The photos are still on the wall. Too many of them tacked awkwardly on the panelled walls, others framed. Some polaroid’s, others … snapshots of drunken escapades and kissing friends. Namely, snogging dear old Sarah at the back of a grungy bar.

Sober.

She can list them all on all ten fingers, but the names are muffled in her brain. There’s always one missing. The shadow that lingered in corner-booths and alleyways, sometimes smoking.

_“Kiddo?”_

Bobbie whirls around, jolting. There’s nothing there but vacant space with always something to try and remember, but the memories are mismatched. The migraine in her head intensifies when she tries, until the pain is damn near unbearable and the medicine doesn’t work.

It’s not her fault she can’t remember anything.

Before she even realises what’s happening, Bobbie is blinking back tears with a swipe of her hand. It doesn’t take her long to start crying again. Hard, open sobs. Even her chest begins to hurt.

Everything fucking hurts, and there are no fingers to point except for the one in the mirror. It’s not her fault she’s like this. Nobody’s fault but –

The slam of a door echoed in her mind. Or maybe its reality.

But still, the house is too empty. Bobbie doesn’t want the false pretence of her friends, who try so damn hard but can never be where she is, in her shoes.

Her phone goes off with its high pitched ringing. Bobbie lets it go, holds onto the existence of voicemail, and knows she will play them all back just to hear their animated voices again because they don’t comfort her anymore.

-

The next time she wakes again having passed out in a daze, the sun is out and emptying into a spotlight on the floor. She stares momentarily at the grey ceiling, blinded by the irony. The silence drags between the rooms, but Bobbie fills it with the memories of drinks pouring, and laughter, and everything that had been too perfect for words.

She remembers it all, in the vaguest way possible. The little things that mattered.

Bobbie longes for solace, or something new to happen. When each day weaves into another, there’s nothing else to do but think and cry and drink. She holds her hand over her head to count the days, and realises she can’t even remember how long its been since-

Since…

Three days is a long time to spend in bed when she bothers to drag herself back in with a dressing gown too short to be hers. But nicotine blooms across the fabric, of balconied nights spent in silence, and suddenly…

  
Suddenly, there is no air left to breathe.

No more ridges to touch or dips to explore, of the ruminating fabric that had once hosted a body too bright for words. There are no phrases to remember, no more love to give.

On a Tuesday morning with showers expected, there is almost nothing there, and her eyes close.

“Darling?” The quiet rises, ebbs and flows between her two shoulders, and empties out of her mouth in a whisper. She anticipates the rustle of the sheets, the outstretch of a palm withered with age.

  
But there is nothing. Every day is the same.

“Maybe you’re just out smoking.”

She says again to herself, hearing the balcony door slide shut in her mind’s eye. Bobbie imagines the faint thud of footsteps, the sunlight warming her forearms, and a faint familiar silhouette resting against the balcony rails.

“I miss you, Jo.”

 _Joanne._ It is more of a plea than an accusation.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Six Months Ago.** _

_**-** _

“Baby?” Bobbie pokes her head above the sheets, arms reaching out to pull a very naked and perfectly sculpted body flush against her own. Tender warmth seeps into her open crevices as Joanne mumbles something unintelligible into her collarbone. She smiles, as one does in an abrupt moment of comfort, wrapped up warm.

A response is given in the form of a soft kiss to her sternum and the weight of a hand on the crest of her hip. Bobbie sighs, grinning wildly.

“Go back to sleep,” Joanne mumbles again, shifting further into her lover’s embrace. “It’s so damn late.”

She laughs, cozily digging her knee up into a defiant thigh. “Yeah but, can I ask you a question?”

“You just did,” came a muffled reply somewhere near her right breast, where Joanne was often found.

“Right, so...” a good start, now that both of them are awake. “What would you do, if hypothetically... I ended up leaving you? Not necessarily that we broke up, but just - I dunno. I just left.”

The silence is telling when it’s 3am and Bobbie is insecure over being replaced by someone with an even bigger presence than her own.

“What?”

“Just answer it.”

She feels Joanne tense, shuffling around when the weight on her chest is lifted. Smouldering eyes are balanced against her own, outweighing blue. Only honesty is reserved for mundane conversations such as this.

“Me? It depends. Would I still be seeing you around?” Joanne hums, brushing fingertips down a jawline and onto the plains of a pale, lithe neck.

“Maybe not. Think of it as a permanent thing, maybe.” her lips croon, biting an exposed shoulder. A quiet exhale is heard conflictingly, and she can very much hear her lips pursue in concentration. Bobbie can’t tell which limb belongs to whom.

  
“I’d hesitate to ask what you’re thinking,” Joanne wobbles, and for a moment she feels bad for asking. If she cries, which is unlikely within itself, Bobbie won’t know what to do. Even her fingertips become reluctant, and her nails are icicles against her skin. “For fucks sake - I’d… I don’t know, Bobbie. I really don’t, but if you’re planning something then please tell me.”

“I wouldn’t, I’m just- are you mad at me?” Bobbie enquiries, patting her naked waist.

“No. Why would you ask such a thing?”

“I was curious. If one of us died-”

“-which won’t happen, by the way - unless I break a damn hip in the shower and die a long, slow death - in which case, no. I’m not ready to die.” Joanne half-whispers, rubbing her face with the palm of her hands.

“Yeah, but… you know, it could happen. Either of us could die tomorrow and we would never know.” Bobbie retaliates, lacking in conviction. The thought of Joanne dying makes her very uneasy, but it’s a topic that crosses her mind in her darkest moments.

“What even are the chances of that happening?” Joanne questions again, shifting out of her embrace. It is cold when she hogs the covers, but she won’t ask for them again.

“I’m sorry, forget I said anything.” She pauses and settles for at least a farewell. “Goodnight.”

The hum of a distant siren burns through the midnight silence. It’s never enough, because with Joanne there were always more questions than answers. Bobbie slides her foot forward and embraces her again, shuffling along so her side of the bed is empty. No apology is uttered, no hum is made. Joanne relaxes, for the first time in a while, and pats the hand that wraps lovingly around her waist. Bobbie squeezes for reassurance and for love and prunes her thoughts in the meantime.

Jo doesn’t hate her, nor does she ever mean the bitterness she carries. It is routine, much like every-day - one after another - a step at a time. A footstep, then a jog and finally, after a lifetime of longing, a sprint. She is forever running after her.

“Go to sleep.” Bobbie does, after hours, minutes, seconds.

-

“Babe?”

It takes her twenty odd seconds or so, maybe more - to realise she’s been kicked off the bed during the night when Joanne doesn’t reply. That’s where the cold sets in, and it’s freezing with no sheets wrapped around her and no girlfriend to warm.

It isn’t any surprise that her spine hurts, when Joanne’s sleep-possessed demon has abused her to the point of falling out the bed and flat on her face. Being naked doesn’t help either, because the carpet is rough under her palms and her loins still ache from whatever sex-fuelled rampage they’d been on.

“Joanne, what the fuck?”

“It’s not my problem you decided to roll out of bed. Go take a shower.”

Bobbie deadpans and lifts her head, groaning in place. She sits up slowly to blow a strand of stray, ginger hair out of her eyes. “Aren’t you going to apologise for kicking me out of bed again?”

“Not really, because I didn’t. You rolled out on your own accord.” Joanne snorts, and she can hear the sheets rustle when she rolls over, feet hitting the carpet with a thud. She doesn’t know how long she’s been awake, or what time in the morning it is - but it’s still nice to revel in the aftermath of the night prior.

“Get up.”

Before she realises anything that’s going on, Joanne towers over her in all her five foot two glory. Breasts and naked—

Oh, but to bury her face in those tits.

Instead, Bobbie stares with pink cheeks ablaze and all she manages is a whine. Her mouth is dry when she stands at an angle, hands firmly on her hip like some sort of sex-demon. Hot and sexy, too.

Joanne’s impious, dead-panned stare brings her up to her feet, collecting hefty limbs from the ground.

"It's eight 'o clock. Get up now or you'll be late for work," Joanne starts, looking over her naked body with a slither of interest. It's only Sunday, or maybe she's forgotten something else. Joanne is insane if she thinks she'll willingly work an eight hour shift at the office with better things to do. In the early hours of a Sunday, it’s always breakfast in bed when they don’t wake up late.

“I’m going to call in sick at the office. I’m supposed to go in for some out of hours work, but - ehhh…” Bobbie grimaces as she remembers the text she’d sent the night before. “Louie can make do without me.”

“Who? Larry's guy? I always knew the bastard had a thing for-”

“-God, no. Have you seen his glasses? He kinda looks like a college freshman. Plus, I don’t think he’s gay.” Bobbie rolls her eyes and guffaws, snorting. “Kinda reminds me of Theo. Remember him?”

The pause in the room suggests she doesn’t, because Joanne doesn’t care about her ex-boyfriends enough to remember them. She simply traces a heart across her chest, and Bobbie stands to watch what else those long, manicured fingers can do.

“I only remember Marta. What happened to her?”

The mention of her ex makes her tense at the fingers, and her head snaps up, fixing into place when she owlishly stares. Their relationship had spanned four consecutive years (a record!), broken only when Marta was desperately high and had dumped her over an intense round of mahjong. Bobbie didn’t even know what mahjong was, except that it was nothing like solitaire, and Marta was insanely good at both.

The weed was good though, she remembered that.

It’s a shame Joanne doesn’t allow her to smoke in the apartment. The woman is a seedy-eyed hawk, guzzles cigarettes like martinis, and is resigned to a death sentence of ecstatic hedonism. Bobbie would rather cut off her left index finger than smoke that branch of certain death.

“Mmn, nothing. She was uh - it was inconsolable differences,” Bobbie gestures, leaning down to pick up a black, lacy pair of underwear. Joanne's, probably.

She’s not fond of losing, and the one too many monopoly games with Marta’s smug grin at the forefront of her memory made her shudder. “I guess. Our personalities clashed too much.” As far as excuses go, it had been entirely her fault.

“Huh.”

"Yeah, exactly." A short pause as she ruminates which article of clothing belongs to whom. There's even a shirt leaning over the aloe-vera, in the corner. "These are your panties, right? I don't think I own a black pair."

"You do, but those are in the wash. These are mine."

"Mmkay."

They end up showering together, and Bobbie admiringly slathers her short hair with shampoo. In return, Joanne rakes her fingers down a very ripply and well-toned back and hums - kissing along the warm flesh wet from the steam. Bobbie’s fingers delve along a thigh, teasing - and she knows she’s hit a spot when her breath hitches and Jo mewls into her flushed chest.

It doesn’t take long for her to come, being pressed against the tiled wall and fucked within an inch of her life. In fact, with the time they have - hours could have been spent in the aftermath, just standing and staring with limbs hooked around the other. When Joanne nearly slips and falls onto the tile floor as she had almost prophesied - Bobbie’s arm is neatly wrapped around her waist instinctively to hold her. A saving grace, but Jo doesn’t thank her.

“Careful, baby. I don’t want you dying there.” A swat is given to her arm in response and Bobbie laughs. She gathers Joanne in her arms and gives her a warm squeeze, relishing the quiet whine.


End file.
